


Pull Me From The Dark

by Emery Hayes (Kitanni)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2019-05-25
Packaged: 2020-03-13 14:18:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18942694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kitanni/pseuds/Emery%20Hayes
Summary: You have recently come to England from Canada, where you were raised.  Originally, you were only here to see where your mother grew up.  While at the Leaky Cauldron you decide that you will visit Hogwarts to see your mother's old school and watch the Triwizard Tournament before going home.  You're about to set off for Hogsmeade when you receive an owl from your father.  Your older brother has been killed and in her grief, your mother has taken her own life.  Given that you and your father have always been at odds, and he all but tells you not to come home, you cancel your plans to leave England and hope to find some direction in the coming weeks.~This posting uses a default character setup.  To read the story with your own customised character,  visitmy website.~





	Pull Me From The Dark

**Author's Note:**

> This fic takes place around the beginning of Goblet of Fire and mostly follows book canon, though I will be borrowing elements from movie canon. The end of GoF and start of OotP is where things really start to change.
> 
> **~Updated 27 May 2019~  
>  I have added Snape's POV to the bottom. I have used default names and traits in this edit. To customise the story your your own details, read it [here](https://emery-hayes.works/wp-content/uploads/2019/05/Pull-Me-From-The-Dark.html).**

The sun creeps its way toward the horizon as you step off the train at Hogsmeade station. Closing your eyes, you take a deep breath, savouring the way the crisp autumn air seems to revive you. You exhale and reopen your eyes. To your right, past the stone buildings lining the platform, should be the carriages that you can take to the village proper (according to the witch at Kings Cross Station), so you head in that direction along with other passengers from the train.  
  
A line of open topped carriages, each harnessed to a pair of draft horses, sit on one side of the dirt road. You look on as the first few carriages fill and move away from the station before climbing aboard one yourself. Already seated across from you is a witch in a purple robe, leaning into a wizard in yellow robes; they’re both deep in a quiet conversation, and you politely avert your eyes. Another wizard boards the carriage and settles himself next to you. He pulls out a magazine – The Quibbler – crosses his legs and starts to flip through the pages.  
  
The carriage in front of yours starts it journey to Hogsmeade. You can’t help but feel a flutter of excitement stir within you; your mother had always spoken fondly of her trips to Hogsmeade as a child and you had been looking forward to seeing it for some time. Finally, the draft horses toss their heads and take up the slack, jolting you sideways as you get underway.  
  
You’re carted along down the road and before long, the train station disappears from view. The deciduous trees in the surrounding forest are almost bare, having long since been stripped of their summer leaves, but the remaining evergreens set amongst the bare trunks and yellow-browns of the leaf-strewn ground have a beauty all their own. You guess that those with whom you share the carriage have made this trip many times before, as they seem quite unaffected by the tranquillity around you. Indeed, they remain uninterested when the carriage rounds another bend to reveal a vast lake, bordered on the far side by tall cliffs upon which perches a majestic stone castle.   
  
Smiling to yourself you can easily imagine your mother as a little girl, running up a flight of stairs with a group of friends to get to a class. In your mind’s eye, you can see her in her blue lined robes, poring over aging tomes in the library, copying notes with a well-worn quill… You’re brought out of your reverie by a particularly large bump in the road to realise that the castle is now out of sight, having given way to more tree-cover hills. Looking ahead, timber and stone buildings rise from the scenery. You’ve arrived.  
  
The carriage comes to a stop outside a large building with several pointed rooves. You jump down to the street, landing lightly on both feet and notice a sign near the door: “The Three Broomsticks”.  _Well_ , you think to yourself,  _might as well check here for a room first_ , and push the door open.  
  
It’s quite busy inside and there is a lot of talk about the Triwizard tournament at the various tables. You make your way to the bar, trying not to knock anyone with your bag. After a few minutes of waiting (that you spend studying the bar’s patrons and catching snippets of conversation), a curvy witch with a pretty face addresses you.  
  
“And what can I get for you today, dear?” she asks, smiling at you as she wipes the bar next to you.  
  
“I was hoping you might have a room spare that I could stay in for a while,” you say, returning her smile.  
  
“I’m sorry, dear – we’re all full up! Everyone’s come up for the tournament at the school. There’s always the Hog’s Head on the edge of town, though. They usually have space?”  
  
After buying a quick drink and thanking her for her help, you make your way back through the crowded pub to the streets and start towards the Hog’s Head, following the directions you’d been given. It doesn’t take you long to reach your destination, but the light is already growing dim when you push the door open and enter the dingy room within.  
  
The barman looks up from the glass he’s wiping to fix you with a sullen stare and says nothing as you approach. The figures you pass as you cross the room each glance your way when your draw level with them, only to return to their drinks once satisfied you’re not there for them.  
  
“And what do you want?” the barman asks.  
  
“I’m looking for a room to stay in for a while,” you reply with a polite smile.  
  
“Haven’t got time for rentin’ out rooms, what with all these extras in town for the tourney. Find somewhere else.”   
  
He starts to turn away from you, the conversation clearly over in his mind. “I can help you with that,” you offer quickly. “Give me a room to stay in, and not only will I keep it clean myself, but I’ll take care of any other rooms you rent out while I’m here  _and_  help in the bar when it gets busy.”  
  
He gives you a shrewd look over his shoulder. You hold his gaze, determined not to give in. Afterall, the village is small, and you have no idea where else you could stay if this doesn’t work out. With a jerk of his head he indicates a set of stairs just beyond the bar. “Down the hall, third door on your left,” he grunted. “Yours if you’re back down here in ten to help with this lot.”  
  
With another smile, you dart up the stairs with your bag and locate the door you’d been directed to. Pushing it open, the hinges squealing in protest, a small, plain room with peeling and cracked wallpaper comes into view. There is a small threadbare bed pushed against one corner and an ancient-looking wardrobe with a mirror on one door leans lopsidedly against a wall. A tattered rug almost indistinguishable from the dusty floor lays in the middle of the room, and a small nightstand sits below the only window.  
  
You pull out your wand and wave it once around the room to vanish the gathered dust, and once again over the bed to straighten and freshen the sheets before turning to the wardrobe. You open the door, half expecting something to tumble out when you do, but find to your relief that it is empty. You place your bag inside and close the door again, casting a few security spells on it – just to be on the safe side. Finally, you turn to the nightstand and conjure a small washbasin and water to fill it. You splash your face a few times, then realise you have nothing to dry yourself on. With a sigh, you make a mental note to do something about towels in the morning, then check your reflection in the mirror before heading back downstairs.  
  
When you get back to the bar, the barman introduces himself as Aberforth and starts showing you around the inn, pointing out the till, the storeroom and the like as he goes. “Now, tonight, all I want you to do is restock under the bar and clear the tables,” he explains. “I’ll go through the everything else with you tomorrow – got it?”  
  
“Absolutely,” you reply, turning towards the door to the basement. “Oh, and Aberforth? Thanks.”  
  
Over the next few days, you learn the prices of the drinks, who the regulars are and what they drink, when to turn a blind eye, and the general layout of Hogsmeade. You’ve grown quite attached to your little room and have discovered that despite his gruff demeanour, you and Aberforth get along quite well.   
  
That Saturday, you awake to find the village outside much more crowded and noisier than usual. Heading downstairs, you find Aberforth in the kitchen preparing his breakfast and ask if it’s usually like this on weekends.  
  
“Of course not. It’ll be the students from up at the school visiting is all. Hogwarts only lets the students come up a couple of times a year, and when they do, nearly all of them come.”  
  
“Right,” you say, buttering a piece of bread for yourself, “and there would be more students than normal thanks to the tournament?”  
  
“Aye. So I’ll be needing you here all day, you hear?”  
  
You smile and mock salute in reply, then raise your glass of pumpkin juice in Aberforth’s direction. He mimics your toast with his own glass, then trudges out to the bar to get ready to open. Finishing your bread and pumpkin juice, you follow him out and busy yourself stocking the bar.  
  
That afternoon, Aberforth approaches you during a lull in the flow of patrons. “Soraya, I need to go out for a bit, think you can manage on your own?”  
  
“Sure,” you assured him. “It’s starting to get dark, so most of the students have already gone back to the school, and I can always jinx anyone who gives me trouble,” you add with a wink. Aberforth snorts a laugh at this and takes his leave.  
  
A short time later, you’re collecting empty glasses from a recently vacated table when the door opens. Looking up, you see a pair of tall thin men walk in and take a seat by the fire. One wore robes of silver, matching his silver hair and goatee, the other had robes and hair of black. The man of silver gestures idly for service, so you make your way over to them.  
  
“Something I can get for you?” Your tone might have been a little more belligerent than you’d intended, because you notice that the wizard in black is looking at you with one eyebrow raised and his head cocked slightly to one side. You meet the gaze of his black eyes for what feels like an eternity, your heart now sounding deafening in your ears, until you’re brought back to reality by the realisation that his companion is addressing you. You force your attention back to the job at hand and confirm his order of two firewhiskeys, feeling the blood rush to your face.  
  
What the hell was that? you ask yourself as you head to the bar to fetch the drinks. You shakily put two glasses on the bar and grab the bottle of firewhiskey, glancing toward the two men as you pull the cork out. To your great relief, they appear engrossed in their conversation. You pour the liquor and recork the bottle, placing it back behind the bar before walking back over.  
  
“Two firewhiskeys, as requested. That’ll be eight sickles.”  
  
The wizard in silver presses some coins into your hand with a slick smile. “Looking forward to the tournament, are you dear?” he asks.  
  
“It should be quite the show,” you say tactfully.  
  
“Viktor is going to triumph, of course, but I’m sure the other champions will do their best,” he boasts.  
  
“Now now, Igor, you mustn’t get ahead of yourself,” says his companion with a wry smirk. “It’s anyone’s game at this point.”  
  
As the silver-wizard turns back to you, no doubt looking for your support, the door opens and small group make their way to the bar. Before he can get a word out, you excuse yourself to serve the newcomers and thank Merlin for your luck. Something you couldn’t quite place seemed… off… about him. Nonetheless, you couldn’t help but furtively watch the pair as you work the bar. They talk a while about the upcoming task over their drinks before standing to leave.  
  
The one called Igor turns to address you when he reaches the threshold. “Thank you for such a hospitable evening, my dear-” he starts, before the wizard in black rolls his eyes and all but drags him away. You grin and shake your head, glad that he didn’t get any further with his praises.   
  
The night crawls on, Aberforth returning in due course, and you close up for the night. Assuring him that all nothing of consequence had occurred, you bid Aberforth a good night and head to your room. You undress and pull on your night-clothes, then slip into your bed. Try as you might, you just can’t shake the image of those piercing black eyes…   
  


* * *

 

Severus Snape wasn’t sure why he’d let Igor Karkaroff talk him into going to the village; they could have had a perfectly acceptable drink at the castle. Indeed, as Karkaroff had selected The Hog’s Head Inn for their rendezvous, it likely would have been superior. Nevertheless, Snape had found himself next to Karkaroff, walking through the bar’s front door just after dusk.

The bar was unusually busy, and somewhat cleaner than usual, though he supposed the imminent Triwizard tournament was likely to blame. The Three Broomsticks only had so much space after all. And events like this would always attract large crowds. They were lucky enough to find a table near the fire, however, so the helped themselves to a seat each, Karkaroff beckoning the barmaid over.

_Wait a minute –_  Snape thought to himself,  _The Hog’s Head doesn’t have a_  barmaid _?_   Thoroughly confused, he turned to see a rather attractive witch approach, her dark red hair pulled to one side and secured with a delicate emerald butterfly pin. 

“Something I can get for you?” she asked, a hand on one hip and her lips slightly pursed.

Raising an eyebrow at similarity between her and Aberforth’s service manner, Snape considered the woman in front of him over steepled fingers. She met his gaze, her hazel eyes flashing almost as though daring him to pull her up. Instead of confronting her, however, he reached forth ever so slightly with his mind, calling upon his legilimency to answer his curiousity.

_Grief. Anger. Fear. And… loneliness?_

“Well you’re certainly much better than the regular barkeep, I must say,” Karkaroff was saying to her, apparently unaware that she was paying him no attention whatsoever. “I usually prefer a mulled mine or a strong mead, myself. Don’t you? In any case, I think we’ll have a firewhiskey each, tonight, hmm?”

Karkaroff’s silence, rather than his words, seemed to have more effect on her, as she suddenly blinked and turned toward him, a slight hint of pink colouring her cheeks. “Oh. Right. Two firewhiskeys then?”

“That’s my girl,” he replied in his usual, unctuous tone. Without another word, she turned on her heel and went to the bar. He turned to Snape and lowered his voice. “I think she likes me, don’t you? Do you think I could convince her to take a tour of my ship later?”

Snape snorted derisively at the thought. “You’d no sooner convince Madame Maxine to dance naked in the Great Hall over dinner.” 

Karkaroff opened his mouth to spit a reply when the barmaid returned, two drinks in hand.

“Two firewhiskeys, as requested,” she said, placing one glass in front of each of them. “That’ll be eight sickles.”

Karkaroff took out some coins and placed them into her open palm, then used his other hand to close her fingers around them. “Looking forward to the tournament, are you dear?” he asked her, as she snatched her hand back as though burned.

“It should be quite the show,” she replied. Snape saw her clench her empty fist, as though she was trying to stop herself from hitting Karkaroff. In the back of his mind, he realised that it made him pleased, though he couldn’t place why.

“Viktor is going to triumph, of course, but I’m sure the other champions will do their best,” he boasted, chest puffed out.

“Now now, Igor, you mustn’t get ahead of yourself,” Snape said, thinking he’d better step in. “It’s anyone’s game at this point.”

Karkaroff turned toward the witch, presumably to extoll his student’s qualities when the bar door opened, and she let out an almost imperceptible sigh of relief.

“You must excuse me – I’d better see to them,” she said, and dashed off.

Karkaroff wasn’t put off from the subject, and instead turned back to Snape and continued unabated. They talked of the tournament a while, Snape happy to talk up Cedric’s chances over Harry’s, while Karkaroff insisted that Krum could not be beaten. Every so often, Snape would steal a furtive glance at the barmaid. Something about her had piqued his curiousity – he just couldn’t think what.

Eventually, the pair finished their drinks and made their way to the door. To Snape’s disgust, Karkaroff couldn’t resist trying once more to woo the barmaid on his way out. He turned, sweeping an arm out in a wide gesture, crying out, “Thank you for such a hospitable evening, my dear-”. That was all he was able to get out before Snape, rolling his eyes, roughly shoved him through the door, making sure to shut it behind him.

**Author's Note:**

> I'd love to know what you think of the revisions!


End file.
